


like gold

by tillunwish



Category: Cool Runnings (1993)
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tillunwish/pseuds/tillunwish
Summary: Junior hosts a dinner. Yul brings a cake.





	like gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinetikatrue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinetikatrue/gifts).



The post-Olympic laudations and hero-worship got old for everyone pretty quickly. 

Kingston was abuzz the second they stepped off the plane; the parties and visitors and celebrations were unceasing. Irv’s glowing pride at his boys’ performance never dissipated, but the cheerful mob attending his every meal, walk, and bowel movement began to sour his memories of their time in Calgary. He longed to go back to his bets – quiet life, for Irv, meant shouting at his radio in an empty bar, cursing Majestic Wind for its last-second overtake of Tequila Sunrise. 

Yul never quite knew how to react to those who approached him – he could pass for sociable in brief interactions on the street, but he grew sick of answering the same inane questions, many of them unrelated to sport. People reserved their Olympic inquiries for Derice (and Sanka, who had quite a talent for exaggeration) and asked Yul instead about his odd name or impressive physique. Being famous was far more mundane than he’d imagined, and the idea of the island as a trap was beginning to seep in again. 

Junior spent a lot of time at home, savoring his father’s newly-granted respect. When Junior arrived back from Calgary, there was a team photo displayed prominently in the foyer, in a sturdy mahogany frame. At dinner, they’d begun to have actual conversations instead of one-sided tests, and they’d even cook together, sometimes. Junior kept sprinting, and not a hint of Miami was thrown his way. The simplicity and the ease were nice, but after multiple hard-won battles for respect, Junior felt halfway hollow, like he ought to be accomplishing something.

Derice accepted the attention graciously, entertaining every auntie slipping him extra fried plantains and pretending not to have done, every student derailing the lesson with requests for anecdotes and stories, every too-long hug and congratulatory ass slap. He was happy to rejoin his wife, and his students, and his many friends. But the thrill of returning a hero from the Olympics was waning, and against Irv’s plea in Calgary, he began to think restlessly of the next step. 

Sanka was the only one who seemed unbothered. He relished the admiration, accepting every free drink before it was even offered to him, herding crowds of children to demonstrate his flawless push-start, and volunteering to distract some of Derice’s fervent admirers with his Olympic body (this tactic, however, rarely worked). 

After months the attention hadn’t abated, and the boys continued to pine for quieter times. They avoided public appearances with one another, as their camaraderie tended to attract exponentially larger mobs. The pace their lives had taken on seemed cruelly antithetical to island life. 

Salvation came when Mr. Bevil surprised his wife with an anniversary trip to Prague, and Junior offered up the mansion for a night or two of respite. He endured gentle ribbing from the team for his schoolboy-like delinquency, hosting parties without his father’s permission, ransacking the liquor cabinet, tucking away all the valuables. But it had been awhile since they’d spent time together without interruption - nor had they managed to celebrate just as a team yet. 

It took days to prepare. Junior rolled dumplings, simmered stock, and soaked cherries in port; he couldn’t find his mother’s cookbooks, so he tried to remember what she had always done on his birthdays to make them more vivid. Large-scale cooking was usually only something he did around the holidays - he liked the flurry of activity in the kitchen, the richness of smells and tastes in the air, the extra rituals and party tricks. This was different. Junior on his own felt frantic, and alternating pangs of pride and anxiety, and a slight ring in his ear.

The air was warm and heavy when he finished, and Junior left the kitchen to turn on some music. His father’s sound system was decent, but as Junior stood in his apron, in the strange limbo between the end of a marathon and the start of a party, he noticed the music didn’t quite fill the space. Junior had sweat on his brow and temple, and the heat of the oven was only partially the culprit. 

He sucked the inside of his cheek, and wondered what he might do. Beenie Man played on, a bit too far away. 

—

“And here I assumed you were still spoonfed, kid,” said Irv, eyeing a pot of something bubbling, brown, and aromatic. “You made all this?”

“Yes sir,” Junior said, pleased. 

“Sanka!” Derice crowed. “You said you can cook – and I quote – ‘a jerk so good it’ll make ya butt fall off.’ Why didn’t you bring it for us? A gift, for our gracious host?”

“I _can_ cook a jerk so good it’ll make ya butt fall off, and _then some_ ,” Sanka said from the floor, embracing a cooler full of Red Stripe with one arm and raising a testy eyebrow at Derice. “Never said I would, especially not for you undeserving goons.” 

“Can I get a beer at least, mon?”

“Oh no no no, I brought this right here all for me.”

Whilst Derice tackled Sanka in an attempt to wrestle the cooler away from his primal grasp and Irv hacked up a lung in amusement, Junior approached Yul. Yul was leaning against the speckled marble countertop with his arms and legs crossed, clutching a new bottle of Appleton by the neck. Junior was about to ask what was wrong when Yul said, “I brought you something.”

“You want to open it?”

“Not this,” Yul said, catching the base of the bottle on the counter as he set it down a bit too heavily. He twisted off the seal. “I’ll bring it out later.”

“You all right, Yul Brenner?” Junior asked. His eyes wandered from the sole of Yul’s sneakers, up his stiff legs, his stressed forearms, his sharp collarbone and at last to his muted eyes. He noticed Yul had dressed up, which meant only that he wore a t-shirt with sleeves instead of one without. Second to his concern for Yul, Junior began to feel a bit embarrassed of his apron. He fiddled with the ties behind his back. 

“You don’t worry about me, Junior,” Yul said, looking not at him but at the ruckus in the lounge area, and cracking a wicked smile, one which Junior did not understand. “Hey, Slinkyhead, stop spilling all the ice! What’s wrong with you?”

—

They were all loudly buzzed before Junior brought everything out. He interrupted Sanka’s lavish toast to his lucky egg to set steaming aluminum trays of oxtail, rice and peas, ackee and saltfish, and curry goat on the marble kitchen island, and heave the huge pot of stew peas over from the stove. 

“Lord almighty, this is a lot,” Irv said. “Did I forget it was Christmas or something?”

“Look now, everything here is a different experience,” said Junior, beaming and sliding his hands together. “You start with the rice and peas on the left here, then to the oxtail, making your way to the ackee and so forth. Each thing is a surprise.”

“Why do we gotta eat in a certain order? What if I want to shove some of everything in my mouth at the same time? Will my head explode?” Sanka said. 

“Oh, Sanka, it might. This is just the best way to do it. Trust me.”

“That head is so full of nonsense it should have burst long ago,” Yul said, a helping of rice already on his plate. Sanka shrugged and started taking generous portions of each dish. 

Junior was full of rum already, and his gaze fell on Yul’s hands, massive and steady. The ring in his ear grew, intensifying, until his single focus was interrupted by a confused shriek. 

“Oh, sled god in heaven! Sled baby Jesus, what is happening to my eyes?! Derice! Derice, man, you’re everywhere at the same time and – and –your face is turning rasta colors, and – OH GOD, WHAT THE HELL IS ON YOUR HEAD – ”

“Hey! What did you put in that?!” Derice asked, knocking a spray of rice onto the floor as he moved to stand over Sanka. The sight of him in a fetal position, pulling his eyes down as if in imitation of Junior’s basset hound, however, soon had Derice cracking up and slapping Sanka on the shoulder.

“Ya dumb fool, didn’t you hear him? You’re not supposed to eat it all at once. You’re fine, get up. Pathetic,” Yul said, shook his head at Sanka, and sent a sly glance Junior’s way.

Junior smirked back, and felt a thrill in his heart. 

— 

Under Junior’s guidance they plugged away at the meal, stopping frequently to laugh at the transformation of the basset hound’s markings to black, green and gold; at the sparkler antennae Irv sprouted from his head accidentally catching the couch cushions on fire; at Yul plucking Sanka’s nose from his face and replacing it upside down. Dinner continued, even though they had all stopped feeling hungry a long time ago. The night passed, and Junior heard the Wailers retreat further and further away. 

Derice left a bit earlier than the other guys, citing work in the morning. Sanka left soon after with bags of leftovers grasped in his teeth, dragging the water-filled cooler of beer behind him with both hands.

Junior waved from the doorway, then turned his attention to Irv, who had slipped from his unsteady perch on the sofa. Junior grabbed his bicep and pulled him to his feet. 

“Come. You can sleep in the guestroom tonight, Irv.”

“Thanks buddy, thanks so much kid, that would be so great, but no thanks, I couldn’t implode. Implose? Impose,” Irv said, and fell asleep where he stood.

Junior pivoted awkwardly to keep Irv from falling on his face and pulling Junior with him. This failed, and he found himself on the floor in a heap, Irv’s sunglasses crushed beneath his shoulder. 

Yul’s hands were on him then, but only for a second; they hauled Irv to a semi upright position, one arm dangling over Yul’s broad shoulders and the other on Junior’s, and they walked Irv up the stairs slowly. As they climbed, Junior regretted scrambling to his feet so quickly. 

They deposited Irv on his side in a dusty bedroom on the second floor, and shut the door to his elephantine snores. 

“At least we’ll know it if he dies,” Junior said, and stopped smiling, in case Yul didn’t find it funny. 

Yul did find it funny.

“Let me show you what I brought,” he said, clapping Junior on the shoulder, and leading him back to the kitchen, where sat a dark cake wrapped tightly in plastic.

Junior whistled, gingerly unwrapping the plastic. “How long did that take you, huh?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Yul, smiling. “Go on, try it.”

Junior went to stab his fork into the cake eagerly.

“Not that much! Bwoy, do you have a death wish?”

Junior instead broke a small crumble off the corner. It was heavy, and before he even put the cake to his lips, he felt drunker. Then, he saw a few memories, most of which had never existed.

At first he saw Irv Blitzer, standing at the podium in front of four boys in a disheveled auditorium, shouting unintelligibly and storming out: a weighty disappointment. Then, a severe whiplash in his heart as he saw Cool Runnings speed through the finish and being smothered by an adoring crowd. The flash that appeared onscreen was blurred out, like a television that had just lost a signal. Then he was in the Olympic trials, a dread surfacing on his skin as he knew what was to come - but it didn’t, and his balance kept, and he ran across the finish far behind Derice Bannock and an intense, captivating stranger. A hard, sickening switch, and a flight attendant stood to his left, beaming and holding a United States immigration form in his face.

He saw Yul in his kitchen once more. Yul glanced to his side apologetically, noticing the grimace on Junior’s face that had nothing to do with the taste of the black cake, and everything to do with its flavor of magic.

“Take another, from this side.”

He did, a much smaller piece this time. A subtle wave appeared in front of Junior’s vision: the way Yul’s eyes followed his, Junior knew he saw it too. 

“Wow. Where can it go?”

“Wherever you want.”

Junior imagined icy air and pigeons, the smells of wool and bitter coffee and flowers and garbage, and suddenly they were on a city sidewalk. Everything was too bright for many moments.

A crowd of Mediterranean tourists pushed past them, looking as ill-equipped for the weather as Junior felt. He doubted they were as nauseous as he was. 

“Why did you take me here?” Yul asked slowly. The sky was still white and hard to look at. Junior could not see Yul’s face.

“Because… it’s your palace. I thought you should get to see it.”

The wind was brisk and the flags atop Buckingham Palace blew wildly, tangled up in themselves. The iron fence and the black cars and the sharp air seemed foreboding to Junior all of a sudden, and Yul was looking at him. He had turned away from the palace. 

“We’re going back,” Yul said. 

They were not in Junior’s kitchen. They were in Mr. Bevil’s library, shelves floor to ceiling with law books and literature from Kingston, classics in English, French, and Russian, encyclopedias dating back to the 1960’s, a vintage Guinness World Records series. Though it was entirely dark, and his eyes still buzzed with the white clouds of London, Junior knew the books’ locations by memory. He remembered when he’d pored over the Guinnesses as a boy, fantasizing about his picture next to an impossible sprint time. 

And then he remembered his father taking the Guinness out of his hand, and replacing it with Crime and Punishment. And he remembered Yul was still there. He was across the room, pushing aside the curtains and staring at the grounds.

“I've never been able to make anything as complicated as that cake. All I can do is silly tricks. What you can do, that’s amazing.” 

“Why did you want to take me there,” Yul said, his voice rising. Junior knew how to answer this, but did not want to. He switched the reading lamp on instead, grabbed something thin from a shelf by his ear, and opened it. He skimmed and found the words, _I'm afraid of your eyes, they're so bold_ , felt very red, and let the pages flip closed. 

“If you’re able to do that,” Junior said, quickly, “If you could make a cake that powerful, why didn’t you go before? You keep saying you gotta get off the island. You can do that? You can go anywhere. You have power.”

“You know damn well you gotta earn it, Junior!” said Yul. “That there was not real. It’s simulated. A hallucination. If I want something that badly, why would I settle? Why would I seek something out, if I know it’s fake? If its only purpose is for people to stand around and gawk at it?”

“That felt like a whole heap more than a hallucination,” said Junior.

It was silent, and he could not hear the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner, nor Irv’s snores amplified through the floor vents, nor “Real Situation” drifting off the walls, up the staircase, into the library, where the ceiling suddenly felt very high, and there was an inexplicable heat.

_Searching me through, reading my thoughts, shining like gold._

Junior lurched forward, pulled on Yul’s shirt, tried to pull him down into a plush red armchair. Yul did not fall, but braced himself on the studded border of the chair, staring down to Junior, and nothing happened for a long time. Then Junior reached, three fingertips on Yul’s cheek, and pressed his lips to Yul’s very softly. 

Yul half-straddled the armchair: one leg folded next to Junior’s thigh, one leg off the side. His thigh muscles strained as he leant forward, tucking an arm behind Junior and kissing him fully. Junior had kissed before, but was clumsy at it, and focused much of his attention on Yul’s torso instead, creeping his hands up Yul’s shirt, taking his waist in his hand, lightly pressing a flat palm on his abdomen. Yul growled, and there was no menace in it, only affection. Junior could taste the strength of the rum on his breath, the earthy spices of the meat from dinner. After a bit, he became aware of Yul’s erection, its broad head pressing through layers of fabric on Junior’s stomach.

He wrapped his palm around Yul’s erection, whole and warm and pulsing, and stroked. It was trickier than he thought it might be, much like trying to tie a tie on someone else. Yul reciprocated the same, and it seemed easier for him, grasp tight around Junior’s cock and moving up and down fluidly.

The ceiling grew higher as they pleased each other, and the sounds of their environment began to return, the tick of the grandfather clock most prominent among them. At some point they stopped, the effect of the rum starting to wear on their desires. Yul’s hands were on Junior’s shoulders, his head, his waist, shielding him against the sudden cold that had settled in the library. The sweat they had worked up over the past half hour didn’t help, and Junior felt himself dozing off in Yul’s arms.

When he opened his eyes, Yul was holding a small piece of cake between his lips, and he held another up to Junior’s. Junior obliged.

They ended up in no place Junior recognized. A green plain, windy and gray, with a massive stone structure before them. It was a castle on a small hill, surrounded by dots of sheep.

“What do you think?” asked Yul, folding his arms. “I found this place. It belongs to no one anymore. No royalty, and there’s a city over the hill, so we can get out whenever the hell we want."

“Is it real?”

Yul did not answer, but the fuzz in Junior’s ears had cleared.

**Author's Note:**

> [This is a black cake.](http://www.jehancancook.com/2011/12/finally-black-cake/) It's truly a labor of love.
> 
> Title from ["To O.E.A."](https://books.google.com/books?id=aKTPAAAAMAAJ&pg=PA71&lpg=PA71&dq=to+o.e.a.+claude+mckay&source=bl&ots=iIvbICJWNl&sig=TmjZULlZzSeiikQZyZHUTBUjzj8&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwip5tWKkJrYAhXjk-AKHejDAyoQ6AEISzAG#v=onepage&q&f=false) by Claude McKay.


End file.
